Bad Girlfriend
by Extraho Incendia
Summary: A night out with Hawke and Isabela.  Drinking, dancing, and more at the Hanged Man.  Title and inspiration taken from the song by Theory of a Deadman.  Rated on the safe side for racy descriptions. Possible smutty chapter 2 depending on response.


A/N: I love this song and to me it really does embody dear Isabela quite nicely.

Disclaimer: Not Mine! I do not own Dragon Age it's associated characters or any other such nonsense. Not for profit just for fun!

Enjoy!

X X

X X

Tip the man he'll ring the bell

Get her drunk she'll scream like hell

Dirty girl, getting' down

Dance with guys from outta town

Grab her ass, actin' tough

Mess with her she'll fuck you up

No one really knows

If she's drunk or if she's stoned

But she's coming back to my place tonight

"Bad Girlfriend"-Theory of a Deadman

X X

X X

The Hanged Man is at capacity tonight. Filled to near bursting with sailors on shore leave. The tables have all been pushed to line the walls leaving a wide open space in the dead center of the tavern.

The bard is good. Far better than the usual fare. His fingers fly nimbly across the strings of his guitar, an antique by the looks of it. His voice is a rich baritone full bodied with a note of huskiness on the back end.

Yeah, he's good _and_ he's smart. He's brought a drummer. The man hasn't opened his eyes since they started playing, hands finding the beat flawlessly without prompt.

They start out slow then eventually the tempo increases. The foot stomping, wood slapping, sing alongs grow bawdier and bawdier as the night wears on.

I'm sitting at a small table in one of the darker corners several empty tankards stacked before me in a growing pyramid. Varric and Fenris have retreated to the suite to play Diamondback the hectic atmosphere having become too much for them.

I'm nowhere near drunk enough to join in the dance and I shouldn't sing. Or so I've been told. But I do watch and she is putting on a show that'd shame the girls at the Blooming Rose. I want to say it's for me but I know better. Because it's less a show and more a game. One of Isabela's favorites. She calls it "how many hands". As in- "How many hands get to grope me before that vein in your forehead bursts Hawke."

I don't particularly care for the game but since _I ALWAYS _go home with the prize I put up with it now and again. So far I've managed to beat my high score. I decide to reward myself with another round.

I motion to the barmaid with my empty before adding it to the stack.

_Her _eyes find mine as she leans into her current partner her back against his chest. She takes a drag off the pipe he's holding. My jaw clenches as my teeth grind together. At this rate they'll be worn to nubs before I'm forty. His hands are on her hips and creeping southbound. She laughs slapping at them and dancing back into the crowd. She's clearly not ready to go. I use my throwing knife to scratch out another tally mark.

She is propelled around the room smiling and moving twisting and rubbing. She grabs a shot here a tankard there. A bat of those mile long lashes quells any complaints over the lost beverages. Every now and then she'll glance my way and arch an eyebrow. _Had enough?_

I show her my teeth. I'm not giving in yet.

Her hair is damp at the temples. Cheeks flushed. Around and around she goes; the muscles in my shoulders become a tangled ball as my knife scores the table top. Again and again and again.

Then the music changes. The drummer takes the lead and dials the tempo back. The beat is deep and heady and even I am finding it hard to resist.

When the throng of bodies begins to part circling up I move in closer leaning against the bar and trying my damnedest to look nonchalant.

Something's going to happen soon. I'm just not sure if it's going to be fighting or fucking. Or both.

She's dancing alone now her head thrown back, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. The only hands on her are her own and they are twice as bold as any other. I see a flash of peacock blue. Her hair tumbles about her shoulders in thick unfettered waves.

She turns that amber gaze on me and my whole body responds like she's thrust her hand down the front of my pants. I freely admit the woman has me trained better than a war bound mabari.

The bard, in a stroke of inspiration that has my pulse rushing though my veins at breakneck speed, sends his fingers tripping in a frenzy to match coaxing sound like I have never heard from the instrument in his lap. The drummer follows suit the music urging her on until the bronze of her skin shimmers with sweat and the things she's doing border on obscene.

My mouth goes dry. I've damn near taken all I can for one night when some drunken half-wit steps into the circle and grabs her from behind. He's got one hand down the front of her shirt and the other wedged firmly between her legs so he's unable to defend himself when she retaliates by slamming the back of her head into the front of his face.

Starting to look like it's going to be one of _those_ nights. He slings a volley of blood soaked curses at her before lunging forward and bringing his fist down in a wide arc aimed squarely at her jaw. It never connects. She sidesteps him easily and he stumbles catching himself at the last minute. She taps his ass with the flat of her dagger.

His face flashes seven shades of red before he rounds on her his own blade drawn. The circle widens but doesn't break. The bard changes tune. The music lively once again. I sidle my way through the crowd until I'm standing next to the sailors companions. At least I assume they are since they're the only other patrons who've drawn down weapons. Seems they don't have much faith in their friend.

He swipes at her with his dagger. It's large and unbalanced just like him. She twirls away excitement dancing in her whiskey eyes. Then she's behind him again her foot planted firmly on his ass. This time he goes down in a raging heap.

She sketches a bow her bosom nearly escaping its confines in the process.

The bard ticks off a riff and the tavern erupts in laughter.

The man, however, is not amused. He gets to his feet then rushes her head on screaming like a madman. Her hand dips into her bodice quick as lightning then there's a flash and a plume of smoke. Everyone in the circle starts coughing except me. I had the foresight to cover my face with my tunic.

When the smoke dissipates she is standing atop the bar cleaning her fingernails with the point of one intricately worked blade.

Again the man rushes her and I am at a loss. It would appear the poor fellow really doesn't have too much going on between the ears. She jumps over his head landing as lightly as a kitten.

One of the other sailors starts to make a move in their direction I tap him gently on the shoulder with my own impressive dagger shake my head slowly side to side. He backs down but doesn't look very happy about it.

Tough. He should try being me for one night.

When the drunken sailor turns for the umpteenth time he finds himself face to face with a Rivaini pirate queen fully in her element. He is surprised to find her so near and so his dulled reflexes allow her to lean in close and whisper something in his ear. His expression softens for a split second before she brings her knee up hard and fast aim truer than Varric's Bianca. The sailor doubles over and she knocks him one on the back of the head with the hilt of her dagger. He drops like a sack of golem parts.

She turns to me chestnut hair falling wild about her face.

This is usually the time when we take our leave to pursue other "interests" but it seems old happy fingers' buddies are taking exception to his unseemly humiliation at the hands of a "common tavern whore".

Unfortunately Isabela takes exception to being called common.

So despite my whispered pleas, "No, please stop. Don't do this. Oh no," the whole thing starts all over again with one minor difference.

Me.

I've got half a cask of Fereldan Ale sloshing in my belly and the hormones of a 15 year old swimming in my veins and these fine gentleman are standing in the way of my prize.

Steel is drawn and pointed all around. There are only five of them hardly a fair fight against the two of us.

The knife I'd been using to keep score is out of my hand and on its way across the room as I step into the circle. It buries itself one man's shoulder. He looks surprised for a second then starts to back away. Smart man. The only one.

I am a flurry using elbows knees and the blunt ends of my daggers to give my new friends a few lessons in proper etiquette. Isabela is a shadow beside me. Moving quick and fluid to finish off what I've started while I turn my attention to the next willing participant.

The whole thing is over before I get a chance to really get going and I'm left feeling entirely unsatisfied.

I look over my shoulder to find Isabela eyeing me like she's a starved blight wolf and I'm a roasted nug sandwich with all the fixin's.

I wipe the blades of my daggers on the shirt of the man groaning at my feet. He flinches away from me holding his nose.

I reach out as I stand deftly lifting an unconscious man's purse. From the feel of it they had a good haul before coming ashore. I toss it to Corff who is standing behind the bar mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish on land. It hits him in the chest then makes a plunking sound as it rebounds onto the floor.

I sheath my daggers and with a flourish I throw my prize over my shoulder. She giggles and grabs my ass.

Maker I hope I can make to her ship.

The last thing I need is another lecture from Aveline on how the Champion of Kirkwall should comport himself in public and those fines, I swear I alone keep the guard in polished armor.

We manage to get as far as the warehouse district before she reaches one hand around the front and….. Well I use my free hand to make sure my coin purse has enough to cover another fine.

It's definitely going to be one of _those_ nights.


End file.
